


you can meet me in the room where the kisses ain't free

by eversincewefellapart



Category: Men's Hockey RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Coming Untouched, Creampie, Daddy Kink, Developing Relationship, Facials, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Oral Sex, Phone Sex, Size Difference, Spanking, Sugar Daddy, Unsafe Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-25
Updated: 2019-12-25
Packaged: 2021-02-26 22:24:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21947017
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eversincewefellapart/pseuds/eversincewefellapart
Summary: Dinner goes well. Mitch just gets to plow through all the food placed in front of him as Auston painfully dregs through tedious small talk. Mitch inhales a tiny lava cake made with dark chocolate and raspberries as the gala’s sponsors give a few speeches that Auston has to pretend to be carefully listening to, clapping on cue while Mitch single-handedly tosses back a platter of fresh fruit.“I’m so full,” Mitch tells him afterwards, rubbing his belly.“Glad one of us is happy,” Auston tells him dryly. Mitch takes pity on him.“I’ll suck you off in the car while we go back to Toronto,” he offers kindly, patting Auston’s shoulder. Auston tries to give him a withering glare but ends up just looking really into the idea.(AU. Mitch is a broke college student who sometimes goes on dates with rich businessmen. Auston is one of those men.)
Relationships: Mitch Marner/Auston Matthews
Comments: 36
Kudos: 498





	you can meet me in the room where the kisses ain't free

**Author's Note:**

> **CONTENT WARNINGS** for age difference (their actual ages are never mentioned, but Auston is a businessman and Mitch is a university student!), spanking, DADDY KINK, unsafe sex/barebacking, mentions of Mitch/OMCs with age differences but only mentions, mentions of rough sex, and also the inherent power imbalance of a sugar daddy/sugar baby relationship. Also lots of consumerism and food talk. If you think I should warn for something else, please let me know!
> 
> Okay, I've been writing this on and off since this school year started, and I have 0 clue how it ended up being 19k. Like. There is no realistic reason it should be 19k. I read it over and it's like literally three scenes. I don't know what happened. But I am praying that there is at least ONE (1) person out there who wanted 19k of Mitch/Matts sugar daddy fic? Hopefully? 
> 
> I went through this a few times and tried to clean it up from the word vomit it initially was but it's...still pretty much word vomit, so I apologize for any remaining typos/mistakes! The title is from _Kiss Land_ by The Weeknd!!!

“Do you speak French?”

Mitch has been busy spooning aside the custard in the overly-expensive dessert set in front of him, trying desperately to reach the bottom of the insurmountable quantity of cream and get to the sponge cake, and this inquiry startles him from his mission. He drops his spoon to the table with a clatter.

“What?” he asks dumbly, and then corrects himself. “Uh, I mean -- pardon?”

“Do you speak French?” the guy repeats, and he looks a little flustered. 

He doesn’t ask with a faux air of authority, and he’s not sitting up as straight as a plank in his chair. These sorts of dates are never really Mitch’s favourite things but this guy has been making it more pleasant than most. Mitch usually opts to never give away any sort of personal information to these men, no matter how insignificant, but he relents this once.

“No,” he says politely, and grins crookedly. “_ Non _. Sorry.”

The guy smiles at him a little, shrugging as he picks up his glass, brings it to his mouth. “Sorry, I didn’t mean for that to be so -- you know.”

“Oh yeah!” Mitch says quickly, even though he actually has no clue. He picks his spoon back up and continues digging into his custard hell. “Yeah, like, French is mandatory for nine years or whatever, but all I can actually remember is, well. _ Orange _ . _ Bœuf haché _ . Do you know what _ bœuf haché _ is?”

“No,” the guy says, smiling. He’s handsome, dark hair curling out from underneath his ears, well-dressed. Nice lips. His eyes are dark.

“It means ground beef,” Mitch says, sitting up a little straighter in his chair as his spoon finally digs into spongecake. “In grade four we did a whole French unit revolving around pizza toppings.”

“Yeah?” the guy asks, and he’s watching Mitch carefully now. He has a hand resting on the tabletop and it twitches; there’s no ring. 

Mitch scoops up the spongecake, brings his spoon to his lips, and sucks it into his mouth as seductively as he possibly can. It’s easy enough because the cake is soggy; it's pretty much turned to a liquid in the glass.

He really despises rich people food. He hasn’t eaten anything at this restaurant that couldn’t be beat by a milkshake from The Burger Shack on Eglinton, and yet the bill will probably clock in at over $250.

On the bright side, it’s probably infinitely more pleasing to watch someone attempt to seductively eat a fancy dessert instead of a greasy burger.

“Yeah,” Mitch says after a moment, placing his spoon back down and running his tongue along the front of his teeth. The guy is watching him so intently that the hair on the back of Mitch's neck stands. “It dragged on forever. The final assignment of the unit was to make our own little pizza shop menus that were entirely in French.”

“That sounds like fun,” the guy says, as if he really cares at this point; he’s already waving down the waitress. But Mitch thinks it's sweet. The guy is making an attempt to pretend he’s interested in Mitch’s fourth grade French adventures. Most men don't even deign to listen to Mitch, and some appear downright annoyed when he tries to speak.

“It would’ve been fun if I could actually speak French,” Mitch muses, leaning back in his chair, mostly glad he doesn’t have to entertain his dessert anymore in a half-hearted pitch to seem polite and thankful. “Anyway, _ my _ shop only sold _ fromage _ pizza.”

That startles a surprised laugh from the guy, who’s handing the waitress back her little black leather booklet, his eyes on Mitch. Her gaze shifts to Mitch as well, and she gives him a polite yet pointed look. Mitch thinks it looks supportive.

“I’m not sure that’s a very sustainable business model,” the guy tells him, and Mitch pulls his jacket on.

“Okay, I’ll let that slide ‘cause you're American, but I think you underestimate how much bitches in Montréal love cheese, bro,” he says. The guy rounds the table to pull Mitch’s chair out after he stands; _ a gentleman_, he thinks, and then the guy is wrapping his arm around Mitch’s waist, pulling him in close, and Mitch can’t help but smile to himself, allowing himself to be lead from the restaurant.

He likes the dude enough to allow it. He didn’t curl his lip in annoyance when Mitch snorted at an abstract painting of a naked man at the Art Gallery of Ontario, and he didn’t do a double take when Mitch accidentally let a _ bro _ slip out during their dinner conversation. Mitch tries his best to never speak like a college student on these dates but he can’t help it sometimes. The words _ bro _ and _ dude _ come to him like second nature.

The guy is warm. He smells _ so _ good, like he’s only wearing a minimal amount of expensive cologne, and not so much as to knock Mitch out cold. Mitch only became aware of scent-related fainting spells in eighth grade Arts & Crafts; the classroom smelled so strongly of AXE spray after physed a boy passed out, crumpling from his stool to the cold linoleum as everyone shrieked.

The car ride is quiet. Mitch watches the snow fall in the passenger seat, and the guy’s hand is resting on his knee -- he keeps it there the whole time. 

The SUV is a rental. It was loaned out by the guy’s company back in the States for his trip. It’s sterile and clean and smells like a new car. The dashboard is gleaming and Mitch tries to keep himself still and small so as to not disrupt that visage. It's difficult when the guy’s fingers inch a little lower down between his legs at a particularly jarring stoplight that has an Uber trying to wedge its way into oncoming traffic.

The guy’s staying at the Shangri-La in the epicentre of downtown, which makes arrival a feat. Mitch drums his fingers against the arm of the seat, biting his bottom lip as he watches the guy get frustrated when trying to take a left.

“First time in Toronto?” he asks, breaking the silence, and the guy looks at him like he’s surprised.

“Yeah,” he says.

“Mmm.”

“Is it that obvious?”

"Oh yeah,” Mitch says, and moves his hand to settle on top of the one the guy has on his thigh. He strokes his knuckles softly. “You don’t get to make lefts in this city without selling your soul, which you obviously haven’t yet.” 

He keeps his hand there.

The guy gives him a small smile, cloudy face opening up again like back in the restaurant. Toronto traffic really could break anyone’s will.

It also strains you, gets you anxious, and Mitch is well aware of that, so when the guy pushes him up against the wall and catches his mouth in a bruising kiss as soon as the door to the hotel room snicks shut, he totally gets it. 

Solely due to traffic in the city, he sometimes wishes he opted for one of the two Waterloo universities, as did half the kids at his high school did, or maybe even McMaster. Sheridan? They’re changing that from a college to a university soon, he’s pretty sure. Brock? If you can walk and you can talk, you can get into Brock, the saying goes. He wasn’t smart enough to get into University of Toronto Georgetown, and maybe he wouldn’t have been smart enough for University of Toronto Mississauga, but he could have probably wormed his way into University of Toronto Scarborough. Why are there so many University of Toronto’s?

“You’re so beautiful,” the guy says lowly, pulling back enough that Mitch can see his eyes, dark, eyebrows furrowed. “You know that?”

“Um,” Mitch says. He’s not sure if the dynamic has shifted. Can he still crack jokes and call the guy _ bro_? Or is that all over? Is he supposed to whimper now? “Thank you, that’s very sweet of you to say.”

The guy cracks a grin and steps back. Mitch panics. “Oh! Thanks!” he says, peeling himself off the wall and grabbing the guy by the lapels of his jacket. “Want me to blow you?”

The guy shakes his head, his hands curling around Mitch’s wrists and gently prying them off. “No, no, it’s --” he stops. “You look tired.”

Mitch is offended. He was beautiful just two seconds ago. “I’m not!” he protests. 

He, in fact, is. He’s bone-deep exhausted, from his heavy course load to his hectic part-time job to maintaining his formerly bright yet now waning social life. And he kind of only wants to go back to the apartment and force himself into Will’s bed while completely ignoring his noises of annoyance and just pass out.

But if he does that, then there won’t be any money for groceries, since his part-time’s paycheque is going mainly to rent. Leftovers will go towards a new winter jacket, because the one his mom bought him a billion years ago isn’t able to zip up properly anymore. If there's any money remaining -- which there definitely won't be -- it will all just have to go onto his Presto card.

The guy reaches out and cups his cheek, stroking the pad of his thumb over the thin skin underneath Mitch’s eye. “You’re exhausted,” he says, and Mitch internally shifts into full-on panic mode, because seeming _ exhausted _ is a lot worse than seeming _ tired_.

“I’m legit not,” he says, and tries to lean back in for a kiss. The guy holds him firmly in place, and Mitch starts to get frustrated. “Like, I’m sorry, but I don’t see why this is any of your business.” He scowls, swatting the guy’s hand off his cheek. “This is -- you’re supposed to just screw me now. Or do you think I’ll fall asleep or whatever?”

The guy looks taken aback so Mitch continues, suddenly aggrieved. “You want someone to cry while they take your dick, bro? ‘Cause yeah, no shit, I’m fucking exhausted, but I can still pull out some crocodile tears.”

The guy remains silent for a moment, and in that moment, which feels like an eternity, the fire that had suddenly flamed inside of Mitch’s chest tamps out, and he presses back against the wall.

“No,” the guy says finally, “no, I -- I don’t want you to cry. It’s just, you really look tired, and I can’t…”

“Oh, you can’t, huh,” Mitch says, raking a hand through his hair. “How selfless, man.”

The guy doesn’t reply. Instead he just takes a few steps back and looks at Mitch as if he’s scrutinizing him. Mitch suddenly wants to shrink; become small and invisible, but he forces himself to stand tall with his shoulders squared. He eyes the guy in return with the same intensity and only now does he realize how large and broad and tall he is. How handsome he is.

“Listen,” the guy says, “go sit on the bed,” and Mitch thinks _ there we fucking go _, toeing off his runners and stalking from the entryway to the main room. The guy was probably just waiting for some feist, trying to egg it out of Mitch. 

Mitch can never tell what they want from him, how they want him to act, because he’s not a pro at any of this and he's also never been much good at gauging others. He tends to blindly throw himself into things, is what his father always says. He just tries to act meek and pretty because it’s easy and that’s usually what all rich men ever seem to want. Someone weak, like prey.

But if this guy wants feisty, he can be fucking feisty.

He sinks onto the bed, which is dauntingly massive and dreamily soft, facing the large glassy window and staring down the CN Tower, which is currently peering into the hotel room like a concerned mother. _ I’m okay_, he mouths at her, and flops back against the mattress, stretching his arms across the blankets, fingers tangling into the plush.

The guy doesn’t follow him, but he hears noises in the bathroom -- the sink suddenly flicking on, the sound of a belt being undone. His stomach sinks, and he waits.

And he waits, and waits, and waits.

\---

He wakes up not in the same position he’d fallen asleep in but instead underneath the sheets, two pillows under his head and another between his legs. He sighs, curls his hand tighter around the pillow, snuggles underneath further under the sheets, blinks blearily at the CN Tower, and then shoots upright.

“Huhgngf,” he slurs, mouth heavy from sleep, and flings his limbs around, sliding ungracefully from the bed to the floor, knocking his knee against one of the glossy nightstands. The table barely moves -- it’s heavy, good quality, and makes his knee flare in a dull pain -- but when he sinks to the floor, money floats down from the tabletop and lands into his lap.

It’s hundred dollar bills, three of them, shiny and beige-yellow with the little maple leaf cutout and everything. Sir Robert Borden’s face stares up at Mitch three times.

Mitch stares back at three Sir Robert Borden’s before he grasps the bills in his shaking fists. It’s been a long time since he held so much money that he wasn’t immediately about to fork over for bills.

He pushes himself up, legs shaky, and he has to use the bed to stabilise himself, because he just starts shaking everywhere when he sees the tabletop. There’s about seven, eight more golden-brown bills.

He feels a little wild as his head whips around, searching the room. There’s not a single solitary hint of the man from the night before, no suitcase laying open or shiny dress shoes lined up by the chesterfield.

It’s just Mitch, the sound of his ragged breathing, and the hum of snow falling outside.

He collects all the money and rolls it all up, counting in his head -- it’s $2500 all together, and the he spies a slim piece of paper with his name scrawled across it. When he opens it up a couple of red bills fall out, and then he’s holding $3000. 

He feels a little stupified. His fist trembles with the money clenched firmly between his fingers as he reads the note:

_ Mitch, _

_ hope you slept well . take your time, the rooms booked for another night. money is yours; it’s not much but it was all the CAD i had on me. _

_ i had a great time last night. hope youll let me see you again next time im in the city (cant remember what you called it) _

_ Auston _

So that was the guy’s name. He’d introduced himself at the beginning of their date, where they met by the front doors of Yorkdale, because Mitch wasn’t meeting any man anywhere less crowded than fucking _ Yorkdale_.

He’d totally forgotten the guy’s name though pretty much immediately after, which sincerely wasn't on purpose. Sometimes he forgets his own name. Usually during the peak of exams, but still.

He shoves the note in his pocket, orders an Uber because he is absolutely not in the mood to deal with public transportation at the moment -- his Presto card is completely flat at the moment anyway -- and dashes out the door with his jacket bundled in his arms, pocket heavy with cash.

He hadn’t really taken in Shangri-La the previous night, because his stomach had been so twisted with nerves, so it takes him a moment to locate the elevator because the guy’s -- Auston’s -- room was on an executive level and the format is all different to that of a regular hotel.

The lobby is massive, sleek and shiny and dark, and he feels ridiculously out of place between the women in suits and men in sharp Oxfords, but his phone says that his Uber is waiting outside for him, so he books it through the exit doors.

He doesn’t calm down until he’s dropped off at his apartment building, and he opts for the stairs instead of the elevator because he needs to keep himself moving or he thinks he’ll explode.

He crashes into his and Will’s apartment screaming and Will screams in turn from the kitchen, accompanied by the truly unfortunate sound of falling kitchenry.

“What the_ fu _ \-- Mitch?!” Will shouts, appearing in the kitchen entrance. He’s wearing a white apron with multicoloured cupcakes sketched across it from Ikea. “Why are you always so fucking _ annoying _ \--”

“Sorry!” Mitch shouts back, and slams the door shut with a little too much force, brushing past Will and flinging a cupboard open. He grabs a coffee mug with little baby blue paintings of Manitoban landmarks, because apparently those are a thing?, thrusts it under the running kitchen tap, and swallows it down in one go.

“Where were you?” Will asks, voice accusatory. “You never came back last night. You didn’t answer any of my texts either.”

“Sorry mom,” Mitch says, and takes another mugful of tap water to their dining room table, which is actually just a wooden box and two folding chairs, one of which he sinks into now. “I was doing a thing.”

Will raises an eyebrow. “Were you -- doing _ that _thing?” he asks, and stands up straighter. “Wait, is that why you’re acting so weird right now? Did he hurt you?”

“My saviour,” Mitch whimpers at him with a shit-eating grin. Will swats at him, glaring.

“No, really, tell me. If he did then I’m going back to that hotel and kicking his ass --”

“You’re kicking no ones ass, bro, he’s probably back in the fucking States right now --”

“Then I’ll just buy a plane ticket and kick his ass in the States --”

Mitch snorts. “Bro, you can’t afford the train to Sauga, how the fuck are you going to get to the States?”

“That is extremely rude,” Will says, looking all affronted, before he kicks Mitch’s ankle. “You can’t afford to go to Mississauga either. Don’t throw rocks from a glass house and all.”

Mitch stays quiet for a moment. “I can afford to go to Mississauga,” he says finally, craning his neck up to meet Will’s eyes, which widen almost questioningly. Mitch reaches into his pocket, fishing out the crumpled gold and red bills, tossing them onto the wooden box. “Can probably afford to take you with me. An all-expenses-paid getaway to the luxurious city of Mississauga, how does that sound?”

The room is silent. Mitch watches Will stare at the money for a moment before he looks at it himself too, and he doesn’t like the relief that floods through him when he looks at it, but it’s there.

Will breaks the silence. “How good of a fuck are you,” he says, not really a question, just hoarse.

“That’s the beauty here,” Mitch tells him, pushing himself up from the chair. “He didn’t even smash, bro.”

Will shakes his head. “I don’t believe you, Marner, and I won’t, no matter what you say.”

Mitch can’t help pouting. “Fine. Don’t believe me. It’s the truth though.”

“I can believe that you suck dick well enough, but I can’t believe your conversational skills are _ that _ good.”

Mitch gasps at him. Will continues, “you are easily the worst conversationalist I know, really. You think that _ bro _is a good placeholder for any other word. You didn’t sweet-talk your way into…” he bends down and parses through the money, eyebrows furrowed, like he’s calculating in his head. Neither he nor Mitch particularly flex in the mathematical department. “Three thousand dollars, no way.”

“Bro,” Mitch says, hurt. “Bro.”

Will gives him a flat look.

“I’m dead serious, he legit didn’t hit this,” Mitch says, and shucks off his jacket, waggling his eyebrows. “You want to look?”

“Keep your clothes on or I won’t bake for you anymore,” Will yelps, stepping backwards into the kitchen with his hands up in surrender. Mitch notices only then the flour on his hands, and the puddles of chocolate staining his apron.

“Clothes stay on, I promise,” Mitch says, peering at the counter. There’s a big orange bowl with the handle of a whisk sticking out. He reaches out to dip a finger in but Will swats his hands away.

“Go clean up,” he says, eyes shifting to the money. “And take that with you, because Zach’s coming over, and I’m really not in the mood to explain anything.”

Mitch grins at him, collecting the bills and slipping them back into the pocket of his jeans. “Zach’s coming over,” he repeats, and Will pushes him out of the dining room with a huff, leading him by the shoulders to his room.

Mitch showers slowly, massaging shampoo into his hair as he blinks at the slick tile wall in front of him blankly. His mind is muddled as he tries to think about the events that took place the previous day.

He beelined to meet the guy directly after class for the day, opting to go straight in his rumpled clothes instead of stopping by the apartment for a quick change. He was tired and annoyed already because of his profs.

They met at Yorkdale. Mitch was sprawled out on one of the sofas in the entryway to Hudson’s Bay, browsing Twitter when he’d noticed a gaping hole behind the zipper of his winter jacket. He’d started pulling spindly cotton from his jacket in horror when someone had said, “Mitch?”

And he’d looked up and seen some impossibly tall, broad dude, hair slicked back and curling darkly underneath his ears, eyes fixated on the cotton in Mitch’s hands and all over his lap.

Mitch generally doesn’t really ever feel bad about himself, but compared to the guy with his Rolex and Burberry scarf and his black Canada Goose down, he sort of wanted to die.

His _ Canada Goose _. Mitch eyeballed it, because he knew the guy was from Arizona and was only visiting the city for work, and he knew that the guy probably bought the thing for a couple of days only to throw it into the back of his closet back home, never to look at it ever again.

The guy introduced himself but Mitch was working through his embarrassment and ended up missing his name. Then the guy awkwardly stuck his hand out.

Only then he realized he didn’t catch the guy’s name, and he freaked out internally for a few seconds, because the guy probably wanted to fuck later, and he was probably going to have to shout some fucking name, and then he relaxed because the dude probably just wanted to be called _ sir _ or _ daddy _ or whatever during sex.

At least he knows the guy’s name is Auston now. Better late than never.

Mitch had wiped his sweaty palm on the thigh of his jeans, the ones without _ too _ many rips in the knees, shook Auston’s hand, and then excused himself to throw all of the cotton out before he rejoined the man, who hesitated before wrapping an arm around his waist.

“Don’t worry,” Mitch had told him, “you can totally do that here. Honestly, bro, you see more gay couples in this mall than anywhere else.” He tried to give the guy a brilliant smile; mask his anxiety over everything at the moment.

Auston just leaned in, lips pressed to the tip of Mitch’s ear, and murmured, “I don’t want to go to the mall.”

So sex already, then. Which, yeah, whatever. Mitch’s been out with dudes who wanted to smash in their fucking rental cars, stuffing wads of colourful Canadian money in his fists with a gruff, “I hope that’s enough.”

But this guy had seemed different. Apparently he wasn’t.

Mitch just shrugged, because hey, he always knew he wasn’t the best judge of character, and allowed Auston to lead him back out to the parking lot.

He was incredibly startled when the guy drove past the big lavish hotels in the core, and then exceedingly nervous, because did Auston book a shady motel or some shit? He hated the guys that did that. He may let them dick him for money, but come on. He deserves, at the very least, the cheapest room at the Four Seasons.

And then Auston slowed down near Grange Park, and Mitch didn’t know how, but suddenly he was staring at a big, hollowed-out tree trunk in the Art Gallery of Ontario.

Auston looked at him a little nervously. “I don’t really know what the most popular museums are around here,” he said, hands in his pockets, and Mitch blinked from the tree trunk to him. His eyes were downcast. “But this one seemed nice. But -- you’ve probably been here before, I guess --”

He scratched the back of his neck, looking increasingly miserable, so Mitch grabbed his wrist, slipping their fingers together. “It’s great,” he said, trying to give him a soft and cute smile. “For real. I’ve never been here, because I’m only in the city for school, my family lives in Markham, and I don’t really have time to do anything else here.” He paused, biting his lip. “Or money, y’know.”

Auston relaxed a little, his hand tightening around Mitch’s, and Mitch continued, “like, I’ve seen the CN Tower, but I’ve never been inside it. It’s crazy.”

“Oh,” Auston said, looking genuinely surprised. He had lead them from the tree trunk to a particularly crowded room, paintings all over the walls. “Where is Markham?”

Mitch made vague hand gestures in some direction with his free hand. “Oh, you know. It’s like, a city or two away. It’s chill there, kinda nice, but nothing like here, duh. At least it’s not so crazy, right? We aren’t, like, constantly on Six Buzz, even though we’re in the GTA. Do you know what Six Buzz is? You don’t want to be on it, lemme tell you.”

He knows he’d been babbling, that Auston didn’t understand a single thing he’d just said and that he wasn’t even making much sense, but Auston was just watching him carefully with a little half-smile, quiet, letting him ramble.

Which was nice. Mitch likes to ramble fast and furious, yet finds that no one ever lets him; they just groan and clamp their hands over his mouth.

Auston had actually just let him babble and babble the whole night, and even when Mitch knew he was increasingly becoming less and less comprehensible, he couldn’t stop. He just kept clinging to Auston’s side, because he was very warm and also super buff, and continued talking his ear off.

And Auston had just allowed him, sweeping him from room to room of the museum, complying when Mitch asked to take pics for the gram, and he’d taken Mitch to a very fancy and expensive restaurant he most definitely asked the staff at the hotel he was staying at to recommend, and the food was honestly very bad because expensive food usually is, and Mitch wasn’t even that sad when he’d been ushered into the elevator of the hotel room. When he was pushed up against the wall and kissed furiously it was even a little exciting.

But then Auston had to go and notice the bags underneath Mitch’s eyes and pretend like he was concerned, which he _ wasn’t_, because he was there for only one thing, just as Mitch was.

It had been nice, right, but Mitch hated it when these dudes pretended it was anything more than _ nice_.

He climbs out of the shower now with a loud sigh, wiping the fog off the mirror with his palm and staring at his reflection. The bags underneath his eyes honestly look pretty rank, and he fingers over them grimly. He knows he's started losing weight, and it’s not even because he’s eating less. The stress is just killing him.

The apartment smells exceptionally good when he steps out of the bathroom though, and he knows Will had put whatever the hell he was whipping up into the oven. His mouth waters.

He pops into the kitchen, where Will’s currently scooping icing into a piping bag, with only his towel wrapped around his waist. “You’re a god, bro,” he tells him, and Will smiles at him before blinking, like he’s only now taking in Mitch’s state of dress.

He throws a box of tissues at him. “Put your fucking clothes on, Marner, for the_ love _of --” and Mitch sticks his tongue out at him, racing back down the hall to his bedroom, feeling lighter than he has since the start of the semester.

\---

After the brief detour, life more or less goes back to normal. Mitch pays full rent for the month and loads $300 onto his Presto. Then he takes Will out and they go on a grocery bonanza, hitting up every single grocery store in the core.

The money’s finished by then, all three thousand, because rent really fucks everything up all the time. It’s fine though, mostly because they have enough cans of ketchup Pringles to last them for all of eternity.

They’re currently in the midst of polishing off one of those cans, alternating between watching an old rerun _ Are You Smarter than a Fifth Grader? _on CBC and doing homework when there’s a knock at the door. Mitch crams two more chips into his mouth, wipes his hands on the side of Will’s shirt, nearly gets punched in the face, and toddles to the foyer.

He peeks through the peephole before flinging the door open. “We weren’t partying!” he protests before Kyle can say anything. “Who complained this time? Was it Margaret?”

Kyle, the long-suffering property manager, looks impatient. He’s holding a big fucking box. “It’s not that,” he says, and then adds, “_this _ time,” before thrusting the box into Mitch’s arms. “This was delivered for you.”

Mitch takes the box and watches Kyle head down the hall before he closes the door.

“Who was it?” Will asks. Mitch blinks at him.

“Kyle,” he says, dropping the box on the floor. “He says this was delivered for me.”

“Online shopping, huh,” Will says, faux-disapproving. “You’re too poor for that, Mitch.”

“I swear to god I didn’t buy anything,” Mitch tells him, “or, like, maybe I did when I was drunk, but I think it was just one of those _ Virginity Rocks _ sweaters, right? This is a big fucking box. This is not that.”

Will groans. “Tell me you didn’t buy a _ Virginity Rocks _ sweater.”

“If I did, I would be lying to you,” Mitch tells him innocently, ripping at the tape around the box. “And Willy, I would _ never _ lie to you.”

Will has really perfected the flat look. Mitch ignores him, sticking his thumb between the folds of the box, wriggling because he’s too lazy to grab scissors from the kitchen.

The box snaps open then with a satisfying noise, and Mitch picks at the pound of white tissue paper on top. There’s a light logo printed all over it, and he squints. It’s the Canada Goose symbol.

His heart stops a little and he plunges his hands directly into the box, yanking out a big wax cover. Will’s leaning forward on the couch watching in interest as Mitch unzips the cover, pushing it to the side.

They’re both silent for a moment.

“Mitch,” he says evenly, “that’s not a _ Virginity Rocks _ sweater.”

He’s not wrong. It’s a big winter jacket that falls just past the hips, not one of the cheaper styles that are short and fitted. It’s dark navy blue, the material smooth and tight, with pockets and a big fur hood and, most importantly, the patch. _ The patch_.

It’s not on the arm. It’s directly under the breast, right above one of the pockets, and it’s massive.

It’s the most beautiful thing Mitch has ever seen. It’s also undoubtedly the most expensive thing he’s ever cradled in his arms.

Mitch gently rests it on the ground, making sure it’s not creased anywhere, and then delicately screams into his cupped palms, before he searches the rest of the box.

He’s looking for a note, or a letter, or anything, and he finds one. His name is scrawled on the front of the tiny envelope similar to the way it was written on the notepad at the hotel.

_ Mitch, _

_ I saw you may have needed a new winter jacket. I hope this suffices. _

_ There’s a gift receipt enclosed if not. _

_ Auston Matthews _

Mitch knows right off the bat it’s not Auston who wrote the note; the shameless man probably had his poor assistant bang it out. Probably had his assistant select it, too, from the Canada Goose website, and they probably just opted for one of the most expensive jackets in a simple colour because they live in Arizona; what the _ hell _would they know about winter jackets? 

Mitch raises the note, squints at it. He had to have had his assistant track Mitch’s fucking address down too.

Said assistant also wrote in Auston’s surname. _ Matthews. _ Mitch doesn’t care really; he’s not going to scour social media for Auston, find his wife (if he has one, and they usually do), then blackmail him for the rest of eternity. But still. In a hypothetical world where Mitch fucked random college students and was rich enough to have had an assistant, and his assistant gave his surname out to those random college students he was fucking, he’d be pretty pissed off.

He tosses the gift receipt aside because it is most definitely not necessary, pushes himself up from the ground, and carefully unzips the jacket before slipping it on.

“Oooohhh,” he says, eyes closing. “William.”

“Don’t call me that.”

He zips the jacket back up, snaps the buttons together, and smooths the pockets down. “It’s so heavy,” he marvels, and ducks his head so the hood falls gently over his forehead, the fur tickling his skin.

Will blinks at him. “Didn’t you say that brand is overrated just a few weeks ago?”

“No,” Mitch lies lyingly. “I think you may have misheard me. I said it’s _ underrated_.”

“Right,” Will says, and reaches out, plucking at the hem of the jacket. “Well. It’s very nice.”

“I know,” Mitch says, and sits back down on the couch stiffly. “I’m never taking it off.”

Will raises his eyebrows. “...Right,” he says.

They stare at the television.

“So,” Will says after a moment. “How did you -- get into this whole business? Like. Do you have any tips on finding these sorts of dudes…?”

Mitch, hidden in the fur of his jacket, smiles in the dark.

\---

Before he crashes for the night he zips the jacket back up into its cover and hangs it carefully in his closet, tucked far from any of his other clothes.

He crawls into bed, pulling the comforter over his head and scrolling through the contacts in his text messages. He hadn’t saved Auston’s number -- he never saves the number of any of the men he meets -- but he usually never deletes the text threads, mostly because he’s too lazy. They fade away soon enough to the bottom of the list as his friends and parents and sometimes even profs text him anyway.

He finds Auston’s text thread from the message preview, because the phone number is unrecognizable and probably American. He clicks it, eyes flickering over the messages.

_ My base rate is $200 but if you want crazy stuff in bed it goes waaaaay up. Is that ok w u _

_ Yeah of course _

_ Do you know Yorkdale? Mall??? _

_ I can find it :) _

He stares at the blinking cursor now, thumbs hovering over the keyboard.

_ Hey, _ he writes, and winces, pressing his tongue between his teeth. _ I just got the jacket. It’s amazing. Thank you so much. _

He sends it, and then sinks further into the mattress, thinking. _ Thank you for the money too, _ he writes, _ it really helped a lot. _ Then, _ And I just wanted to apologize for being so rude at the hotel. I really was super tired. _

He closes his phone and drops it on his nightstand, snuggling under his sheets. But he can’t fall asleep; he lays there, blinking at his phone before he reaches back out for it, drawing it close to his face.

_ You can totally see me next time you’re in the city, btw _ , he sends, and barely holds himself back from writing _ pleeeeeeeassse do _. He then puts his phone back and rolls over onto his other side, closing his eyes.

\---

When he wakes up, his body feels heavy as lead, the sky is still dark blue, and his alarm is going off. 

He’s always wanted to smash the thing into pieces but right now -- right now, he thinks he may really actually go for it.

He turns it off and ambles into the bathroom, and he has to lean against the doorframe while brushing his teeth because he doesn’t think he can actually keep himself up without a little help.

He has to head to the library soon because he has a sixty-page report to annotate for Canadian Politics, and then he’s meeting with his linguistics group to check in on their progress for their Research & Writing seminar. Then he has his_ actual _ classes, and then he’s scheduled to work from six to close at his part-time job. Six to close is usually a fine shift but tonight there’s _ inventory _.

He slumps against the doorframe, and he thinks he can physically feel the bags underneath his eyes sag further.

He’s got his sleep pants halfway off by the time he makes it back to his room, and he changes his clothes quickly, pulling out a pair of sweats and then tugging a Ryerson hoodie over his head, his hair sticking to his face with static as soon as he’s got it on.

The high point of his morning is that his jacket is warm and thick and has no rips, and he even has enough change after the groceries to get a large French vanilla from Tims.

It’s only when he’s on the streetcar, blowing against his drink, when he fishes his phone from his pocket to plug his earbuds in that he notices his text messages.

His cheeks heat up as he remembers the messages he sent, and he doesn’t even know _ why_.

They weren’t even embarrassing messages, is the thing. He’s sent crazy dirty texts and has felt less shame than right now, and it’s weird, but it still takes him a moment to gather his courage and read the messages.

_ Hey no worries at all Im glad you liked it _

_ And you don't have anything to apologize for, I understand _

_ You looked exhausted I still don't understand how it took me so long to notice _

_ I guess I just had to look at you closely _

Mitch closes his phone, scratches his nose, glances around the streetcar, and opens his phone again. There’s a couple more texts, the timestamp a little later than the first batch.

_ I’m coming down to Tor in a week or so _

_ I’d love to see you then _

_ You can choose the restaurant _

_ Because I could tell you really didn’t like the last one aha _

Mitch barely holds himself back from fistpumping. His thumbs fly on the keyboard.

_ YES!!!! _ he sends without thinking, and immediately regrets it afterwards. _ I mean yes. Of course. _

It’s weird how good news always makes him feel lighter. He barely feels the day after that, flying through everything while half-awake, and when he gets home after inventory his feet are killing him but he doesn’t even care.

“Hellooooo,” he sings, toeing off his shoes and peeking into the living room. No one’s there, so he checks the kitchen, the bathroom, and then Will’s room.

The man and his golden locks are nowhere to be seen, so Mitch changes his clothes before wandering to the kitchen. He puts twenty packets of Mister Noodles in a big pot of water on the stove before throwing himself onto the couch.

He hears the door creak open approximately ten minutes later.

“Mitch.” Willy’s in the entryway to the living room, pulling at his scarf with a deep frown. “What are you cooking?”

“Mister Noodles,” Mitch tells him distractedly, reading the Wikipedia article for the latest _ Star Wars _ movie so he can spoil it for Zach later.

“Go turn the stove off, it smells awful.”

He’s not wrong. Mitch can smell burning. He jumps off the couch and dashes to the kitchen while Will shouts “how do you fuck up Mister Noodles?!” behind him.

“Sorry!” Mitch shouts back, and peers out of the kitchen. “My mind’s just really full at the moment and all, you know.”

Will blinks at him. “Oh. Yeah.”

They blink at each other.

Mitch clears his throat. “Are you, uh, gonna ask me why my mind’s so full?”

“Not really.”

Mitch throws his arms up into the air. “Auston’s coming back to the city, bro!”

“Who the fuck?”

“The guy who bought me that jacket!” He pauses. “And paid our rent for the month!”

“Oh, your sugar daddy,” Will says, and Mitch opens his mouth to argue, except then he realizes he really can’t. “Can you let him smash this time? You’re driving me crazy these days. You need to have sex.”

“Fine,” Mitch sighs dramatically. “For you, and _ only _ for you, I’ll let him hit it three ways ‘til Sunday.”

“I swear to god there’s something wrong with you.”

“Oh, absolutely,” Mitch says, and holds his hand out for a fistbump.

Will fistbumps him.

It’s all good.

\---

The week passes by more or less the same as all weeks pass. There’s school work, regular work, and naps in streetcars that have him waking up on the complete opposite side of downtown he needs to get off at.

Auston sends him a few more messages during the week, just asking how he is and ironing out some wrinkles for his exact arrival time, and Mitch never stops feeling surprised when he sees the notification. He’d finally saved Auston’s number into his contacts, just under Auston’s name and first initial, but _ then _ Will got ahold of his phone and changed it to _ $UGAR DADDY_. Mitch left it as that because, after mulling it over for a while, he decided he fucked with it.

Auston sends him a text the Friday before the weekend he’s supposed to arrive.

_ Did you want to meet at yorkdale again? _

_ Nah, _ Mitch sends back. He’s got his laptop -- a big, scratched-up, overly-abused lug of a thing -- hot and heavy in his lap, twenty different assignments open in various tabs, and he pushes it onto the coffee table, stretching out along the couch. _ You can pick me up from my apartment if u want??? _

_ I think yorkdale sounds good _

Mitch furrows his eyebrows. Okay then. 

_ Ya sure bro _

He then closes his phone, letting it drop to his stomach, and rakes a hand through his hair, thinking about it all. Auston wants to keep it strictly professional apparently. Impersonal. Sure, Mitch can do that easy fucking peasy. But technically it _ was _ Auston who started the personal stuff, and now he’s backtracking pretty hard. Mitch wonders if it’s because he snapped at him the way he did.

His phone rings, which startles him, because his phone generally does not ever do that.

He picks it up, fully expecting to see _ MOM CALLING _ written across the screen, but --

It says _$UGAR DADDY_ _CALLING._

He blinks.

“Hello?” he says. There’s rustling on the other side.

“Mitch,” says Auston, and it sounds like he’s smiling. “How are you?”

Mitch sits up so fast he nearly falls off the couch. “I am literally so chill,” he says coolly. “Uh, how are you?”

“I’m good,” he says, “just settling into the hotel after the flight and all.”

Mitch pulls his phone back, staring at it, and then brings it back to his ear. “You’re here already?”

“Yeah,” Auston says, and he sighs but it doesn’t sound tired or annoyed. It sounds nice. “Last time I got here I had no time to get my shit in order before the meetings, and it was beginning to look the same this time, so I thought why not? It’s a beautiful city.”

Mitch doesn’t agree with that. Toronto is a very hideous city. There are many beautiful cities, and Toronto is absolutely not one of them. “Oh yeah,” he says, “it’s a real beauty.”

“And there was a beautiful boy in the city waiting for me,” Auston adds, “which was more incentive.”

Mitch feels his face go fire hot. “Uuuhhh,” he says.

“You were, weren’t you,” he says, and Mitch is going to throw himself off the balcony, especially when he adds, “eagerly.”

“Okay, okay, calm down,” he says, “not _ eagerly _ \--”

“Your texts seemed pretty eager,” Auston says casually. “And your voice, right now.”

Jesus. 

“When I left Toronto the last time, all I could think about was you, and how badly I had wanted you all night,” he continues. “I thought about you the flight home and the following days. I’ve never seen someone as pretty as you.”

Mitch glances down at his worn threads; his paper-thin t shirt with mustard stains from long ago. “I --” he stammers.

“I regretted not tasting you,” he says at last, and Mitch sinks back into the couch. “I’m sorry, but I thought of it all night long. When I first saw you, when you stayed close to me at the museum, with your spoon in your pink mouth at the restaurant.”

“You wanted to put something else in my mouth, huh,” Mitch blurts. He then promptly grabs the decorative pillow underneath his feet and crushes it onto his face.

“I did,” Auston says without missing a beat. “I wanted to put my fingers in there first.”

Mitch pulls the pillow off his face. He kind of wants him to continue but he also wants to shut his phone and fling it far, far away.

“Right there, in the middle of the restaurant. I wanted to pull you in close and put my fingers in your mouth and have you lick them in front of everyone.”

Mitch can roll with that. “And?” he asks. He presses his phone between his shoulder and cheek, using his hands to undo the ties of his sweats. There’s a very inconspicuous bottle of hand cream on the coffee table, and he takes two pumps into his palm before wriggling his hand down his briefs.

“I wanted to take you back to the hotel,” he says, “I never thought it would end the way it did.”

“What did you want to do to me?” Mitch presses. “What would you have done if none of that ever happened? If we had sex?"

“I’d have fucked you,” he says, “on the bed, with you bent over, your face in the sheets, and I know you’d love it. You would, wouldn’t you?”

“_ Yes _,” Mitch hisses. His grip on his dick is slippery; there’s so much cream and his palm is so warm it’s almost melting. He rubs over the head, thumbing the slit, feels it flex as thick precome beads to the surface.

“You look like the kind of boy that likes it that way,” Auston says, and Mitch can hear noises -- the rustling of a belt. “Used, filled.”

“I am,” Mitch says, “I do,” and he’s not ashamed of that, because it’s so good, and it’ll be even better with Auston, he can feel it. “I love it so much, Auston, I love it. I want you to fill me --”

“I would,” Auston promises, “I’d fill you right up. Hold your hips and finger it all back into you, make sure none of it slips out.”

“God,” he breathes, “please, I want that --”

“I thought about putting you up against the window naked for the whole city to see. Thought about fucking you right there,” he says, and Mitch whines, the muscles in his thigh jumping at that. He’s surprisingly into the idea; cool glass against hot skin, there where anyone could see but won’t, high in the sky.

His eyes screw shut, and he listens to Auston’s grunts, his wrist working so quickly it’s starting to ache. He wills himself through it; he can feel it starting, feel the draw in his knees and the way the heat in his belly begins to fade slowly, slowly, slowly, until it’s gone and he’s arching his back, coming over his belly, his fist. He moans Auston’s name, head falling against the arm of the couch, hopes the man heard it loud and clear.

He pants, body slumping into the couch as he listens to Auston come a few moments later, eyes still closed. It’s an orgasm that makes him feel sated; not a bad and disappointing one, and not one that makes him feel like it’s drawing his soul out of him as soon as it hits. He feels like he could take a quick nap now.

He instead tries to wake up his tongue from where it feels like lead inside his wet mouth. “Shit,” he breathes. “I -- I’m not usually that fast, I swear.”

“Same.” Mitch can hear the smile in his voice, which has gotten a little lazy from coming, again. “Shit, I can’t wait to see your gorgeous face tomorrow.”

Mitch pauses. He’d completely forgotten that they were supposed to meet the next day, and now that he’s been reminded, he -- “Why don’t I...why don’t I come see you tonight?” he asks, and he can hear Auston’s breathing hitch. He doesn’t immediately respond like Mitch had hoped though, so he quickly powers forward. “Shangri-La, right?”

“Mitch,” he says, and he sounds unsure. “I would love that, but I have some work to finish tonight…”

“I’ll be good!” Mitch says, sitting up and wiping his hand on the thigh of his pyjama pants. “Like, I’ll be so good. I’ll be so quiet. It’ll be crazy, you won’t notice me at all.”

Auston still doesn’t respond, and Mitch thinks hard for a moment. 

“I’ll be such a good boy,” he says, lower, trying to gauge if Auston will be into it, “I know you don’t think so, but I can be so quiet. I won’t bother you. I can sit on the couch, or I can sit on your lap, or I can wait in your bed while you do all your work.” Auston makes a nearly imperceptible noise. “Don’t you want something warm waiting for you when you’re finished?”

“Where is this coming from?” Auston asks weakly.

It’s not a surprising question. People have been surprised when Mitch turned off the idiocy and turned on the sweet and submissive act.

“Or I can sit in the corner,” he says softly, biting his thumb. “Naked, if you’d like.”

Auston swallows.

“You can put me on my knees in the corner yourself, _ daddy _,” he adds, voice barely above a whisper now. His softening cock twitches at the thought; he’s nearly salivating at it, naked and folded small in the corner of the hotel room as Auston, in his suit, ignores him and focuses on his works. He shouldn’t like the thought as much as he does.

“Jesus christ,” Auston says, rough. “Get over here.”

“Can and will do.” Mitch swings his legs off the side of the couch, standing to his feet. He still feels a little lax with orgasm but he’s newly charged. Auston inhales on the other line.

“Wait,” he says, and Mitch’s heart sinks for a second, until -- “should I come get you?”

“Uuuuhhhh,” Mitch says, glancing around. “I -- it’s okay. I can probably get to you faster with the streetcars than if you drove over here honestly.”

“Are you sure?” Auston asks. He sounds hesitant and Mitch reassures him before closing the phone with a promise to be there soon. He throws on a threadbare school shirt, a clean pair of sweats, and the new jacket Auston got him, grabbing his phone and flying out the door with one cursory glance into the kitchen to make certain nothing’s been left on.

It’s rush hour. It’s technically always rush hour in the city -- Toronto’s streets will never be cleared of cars, but it’s abysmal at the moment. His dorm is close to downtown and the street cars pass through slushy roads bolstered by their wires.

Auston is waiting in the lobby once he gets there. The security guards don’t give him a second glance -- he assumes it’s because of the jacket, the logo bright and clean on his chest, and he doesn’t notice Auston sprawled in one of the leather chesterfields in the lobby as he smooths over his chest, fingers catching over the buttons, the pockets.

“Mitch?”

He turns around, wide-eyed, and Auston’s standing from the chesterfield. He’s got a thin long-sleeve on, forest green and stretching over his broad shoulders, and he’s wearing pressed slacks that are tailored to his legs. Mitch stumbles momentarily.

“Oh,” he says, and Auston’s eyes flicker over his body. He comes to stand in front of Mitch, reaching out to tug the lapel of his jacket, smiling.

“It looks good on you,” he says, smiling. Mitch grins.

“I know,” he says, doing a little twirl, letting Auston see it from all sides. “Haven’t taken it off since.” He sees the eyebrow Auston raises, and tacks on, “just kidding. I like it a lot though.”

“I’m glad,” Auston says. He runs his hand over Mitch’s shoulder, and then over his cheeks, pink from cold. “You’re freezing. Do you want to go upstairs now?”

“_ Yes _,” Mitch says enthusiastically. It’s admirable how well the employees in the lobby ignore them. If Mitch were in their spot, he’d be peeking over his computer and eyeballing them to hell and back. He’s very bad at minding his own business. “Take me to your humble abode.”

“You’re adorable,” Auston tells him unabashedly. Mitch blinks at him, and then feels his face go hot. He’d not expected that at all. Auston crowds close to him, wrapping a strong arm around his waist as he leads him to the elevators. “I want to put you on your knees so fucking badly, baby,” he adds, quieter. Mitch’s dick would probably twitch if he weren’t still numb from the freezing cold outside.

The second they slip into Auston’s room, Auston’s pushing Mitch right back up against the same wall he did weeks ago. He’s cradling Mitch’s jaw in one of his big hands gently, kissing him soft and slow and thorough and _ hot _, tongue in Mitch’s mouth, licking at him. Mitch clutches at his shoulders, hips rolling forward into Auston’s.

Auston pulls back then, kissing Mitch’s forehead, the tip of his nose. “Baby,” he murmurs, thumbing over Mitch’s bottom lip, “I’m not going to be able to do any fucking work while you’re here.”

“Means I’m doing my job right then,” Mitch breathes, and a stricken look passes over Auston’s face. Mitch frowns, unsure, but he doesn’t have any time to parse it because Auston’s dipping back down and kissing him hungrily again.

It’s just kissing, but it’s almost too much -- Auston’s pressing him against the wall with the whole weight of his strong body, holding his face tenderly and sucking on his tongue, his half-hard cock pressing against Mitch’s hips. Mitch melts against him, slipping his hands underneath his shirt and brushing his fingers all over his abs.

He feels Auston’s cock rub against his lower belly again, and he pushes at Auston’s chest. He can’t get him to move but Auston takes the hint anyway, stepping back quickly and giving Mitch a worried look. “Was that -- was it too fast? Too much?”

“Shh,” Mitch says, sliding to his knees. Auston sucks in a breath, his hands coming to rest lightly on Mitch’s head as Mitch fumbles with the belt and flies of his pants.

“Are you sure?” Auston asks, looking like he’d probably pass out if Mitch decided against it, and Mitch nods. He wants Auston’s cock in his mouth all of the sudden, wants it badly.

“Yeah, _ daddy _,” he says, winking. Auston groans, scritching his scalp, and Mitch raises an eyebrow. “Oh.”

“Fuck,” Auston pants, cheeks going flushed. “That’s -- sorry --”

“Don’t be sorry,” Mitch chastises, getting at his briefs. He leans in to mouth along the hard shape of Auston’s cock pressing against the material, his saliva getting the cloth damp along with Auston’s precome. “It’s hot, daddy. You’re so big.”

“Jesus,” Auston says, voice tight. Mitch pulls his briefs down, his cock right there, and leans in to suck on the head, lashes fluttering shut. “Baby, you’re so -- fuck --”

Auston sounds like he’s about to come from just this, Mitch tonguing the head of his cock, lapping up all the precome beading there, curling a hand around the base of his cock. 

Mitch slaps Auston’s cock against his cheek, feels slick splash over his skin. Auston groans, and Mitch ducks his head back, going a little cross-eyed as he tries to watch Auston’s cock slide into his mouth, taking it in halfway until it rubs against the inside of his cheek.

“Look so good,” Auston murmurs, pulling Mitch’s hair tight between his fingers. Mitch bobs his head, gagging on his cock for a moment -- it’s been a while -- and Auston rubs the bulge of his cheek. “You like playing with it more than sucking it, don’t you.”

Mitch pulls off, feeling the drool that had gathered by the corners of his mouth slip down his chin. He jerks Auston once, twice, thinking about a rebuttal, but Auston’s not wrong. He loves playing with cock -- stroking it, rubbing it over his face, nuzzling it against his cheek, his nose. He loves cock rubbing against the creases of his thighs, between his legs, between his ass cheeks and snubbing against his hole, running the length over where he’s burning hot and pulsing sweet inside. Sometimes playing with it, getting these men panting and squirming, getting his whole body sticky and shiny with streaks of precome, is the best part.

But right now there’s a phantom ache between his thighs that sends a jolt of good feeling through his body whenever he clenches, and he can’t imagine doing exactly that on Auston’s cock -- _ around _ it -- right now, can’t imagine how good that would feel. Auston’s cock is big, thick and long, and he licks the underside of the head now, meeting Auston’s eyes.

Auston’s eyes are dark, his full lips parted, and with the hand on the back of Mitch’s head, he holds him in place, swatting Mitch’s hand off his cock and taking it in his hold instead, feeding it into Mitch’s mouth until he gags, until tears gather at the corners of his eyes.

“Your pretty pink mouth can’t take it all, baby,” Auston says almost gently, pulling his hips back a little before fucking Mitch’s mouth. Mitch’s eyes squeeze shut, his hands coming to rest on Auston’s thighs, scrabbling at the material of his pants. His throat works around the head of Auston’s cock when it presses too far, his breathing cut off for a moment until Auston pulls back and repeats the motion. “Tight little mouth, tight little throat.” His voice drops lower as he asks, “how tight is that little ass, Mitch?”

If Mitch weren’t gagging and drooling on cock, he’d either snark back or he’d bend over and beg Auston to find out for himself. As it is, he _ is _ gagging and drooling on cock, and he’s mostly glad, because neither of those responses he’d want getting out.

He instead focuses on rubbing the heel of his hand against his own cock. His whole body thrums with excitement; he’s already come twice today -- directly after waking up, and when Auston talked him through it on the phone earlier. He wants to come again though. He wants to feel good always. 

He tips his head back and tries to make his throat go lax, letting Auston use his fill of his mouth to get off like a good boy, and hopes that Auston will notice how hard he is afterwards and take pity on him. He doesn’t think Auston will fit his big cock inside of his ass tonight, but maybe he’ll bend Mitch over his lap and finger him, stretch him out with three or four, the rough and calloused pads of his fingers smoothing over Mitch’s swollen prostate until he comes all over the softness of his heaving belly.

He pulls off with a wet noise, jerks Auston’s cock quickly, the head still nudging against his swollen bottom lip. He meets Auston’s eyes before he says, voice raspier than it was before, “c’mon daddy, come on me, I want it, please, please --”

Auston complies. He uses the grip he has on Mitch’s hair to yank his head back, open and waiting as he comes. It’s hot all over Mitch’s face as it lands in thick ropes all over his eyelashes, nose, lips. He sticks his tongue out flat and grins, knows it makes a pretty and eager picture. He’s been told that before anyway -- men who’ve growled once he’s done it, putting him face-down on the floor and grunting about how indecent his face is, hitching his hips back onto their cocks over and over until he’s screaming and clawing at the carpet.

Auston doesn’t do anything like that, but he still tightens his hand in Mitch’s hair, groaning, using his other hand to stroke over Mitch’s face. He rubs the come into Mitch’s skin, the apple of his cheeks, stroking it all over until Mitch’s face feels sticky and uncomfortable. Mitch opens his mouth easily when Auston presses his thumb over his lips, flicking his tongue over the slick pads of Auston’s fingers.

“Daddy,” he slurs. Auston’s watching him with dark eyes, and his gaze drops lower to where Mitch’s cock is tenting the front of his sweats, “I wanna come --”

“Yeah,” Auston whispers, clearing his throat. He bends down a little, gripping Mitch underneath the arms, pulling him to his feet. “Let’s go over to the bed, and we can fix that.”

Mitch shudders as Auston kisses his temple, and follows.

\---

When Mitch wakes up in the morning, Auston’s propped up on an elbow, and he’s stroking softly through Mitch’s hair, watching.

Mitch wants to say something dumb to offput the sudden glee in his veins -- “watch people sleep often, bud?” -- but he can’t bring himself to. It’s warm and cozy and he likes Auston’s touch. He decides to just fluff his pillow, bury his cheek back into it, and snuffle closer to Auston.

Auston’s motions stop then. Mitch pouts. “No,” he says, “no, no more sleeping.” He buries his mouth in the crown of Mitch’s hair and kisses him there, pinching his shoulder. “Come on, let’s get some breakfast.”

“‘m so _ tired_,” Mitch whines. Auston laughs and gives him another kiss, this time on the bridge of his nose. Something pleased flares in his belly.

“You’re fucking adorable, you know that?” he asks, and rolls away from Mitch, standing up from the bed. Mitch immediately misses the warmth. “I have plans for you.”

Mitch peeks up at him. “Oh,” he says, grinning.

Auston grins back. “Not_ those _ sorts of plans,” he huffs, “better ones.”

“What’s better than this?” Mitch asks, and then adds, “_daddy_?”

Auston peels the blankets off of him at that and spanks him once so quickly he’s disoriented. “Up, baby,” he says easily, disappearing into the ensuite.

Mitch grumbles but follows him anyway. The shower is _ massive _ and he lets Auston kiss him under the stream of hot water, licking at the droplets hanging off Auston’s chin before Auston turns him around and presses him up against the slick tiles. Mitch’s fingers curl against the wall and he shudders as Auston plasters along his back, kissing his neck, licking at the shell of his ear, arms wrapped tight around his waist.

“You look beautiful when you sleep,” Auston murmurs. Mitch thinks about the times Willy’s told him he looks like an idiot asleep, mouth open, sprawled all over, hips hitched. Auston’s either a very kind liar or Mitch has got him hypnotized already.

“Thank you,” Mitch says, squirming when he feels Auston’s hard cock nudge between his cheeks. His hole clenches, and he rolls his ass back as much as he can, rutting along the stiff length. “Put -- put it in me, daddy, _ please _ \--”

Mitch is pretty certain he can secure the next few years of his tuition by breathlessly begging Auston to fuck him, _daddy,_ _please_, if the way Auston responds to these pleas is any indication. He groans, tightens his hold around Mitch’s waist, and rubs one off against him, a stream of filth spilling from his mouth and into Mitch’s ear as his muscles jump when he comes.

He slides his big hand down Mitch’s belly, wrapping his fingers around Mitch’s cock, stroking him quickly. Mitch squeezes his eyes shut, biting his knuckles as he comes, fucking up into Auston’s fist as Auston kisses all along the back of his neck, his shoulders.

“Daddy,” he moans, head full of cotton, brain temporarily offline. Auston kisses the slope where his neck meets his shoulders.

It takes a while to get out of the shower afterwards -- they’re loose-limbed and tired, and Mitch shampoos his hair three times because he keeps forgetting he’d already done it. By the time they do climb out he’s squeaky clean -- he glances at himself in the foggy mirror and is pretty certain he’s sparkling.

“I’m sparkling,” he says dumbly to Auston, who laughs and agrees good-naturedly.

“You certainly are,” he says, and sounds embarrassingly fond. Mitch flushes.

It’s only when Mitch is toweling off and watching the muscles in Auston’s back flex as he changes into a simple tshirt does he realize he has no clothes. His movements falter and Auston gives him a sidelong look.

“What’s wrong?”

“I --” Mitch frowns. “I. Um. I don’t have anything to wear?”

His jacket is intact but the sweater and sweats he came over in are completely soiled. Auston had mouthed over his cock through his clothes for nearly half an hour the previous night, rubbing his fingers between Mitch’s cheeks over layers of cloth too, until Mitch jerked and came all over the insides of his sweats, tear tracks all down his face. His clothes had then been discarded on the floor by the bed before they fell asleep and they are now, by the looks of it, generally unwearable.

“Oh,” Auston says easily, “just grab something from my suitcase.”

Mitch hesitates for all of three seconds before deciding that hesitation isn’t his thing, ambling over to where Auston’s suitcases are haphazardly strewn open on the floor by the ensuite. He picks through the clothes -- Gucci, Gucci, and more Gucci, accompanied by some Louis -- before he finds a plain white button-up. He’d prefer a tshirt but there aren’t any others than the one Auston’s got on at the moment, it appears. He slips it on, buttoning it up just underneath the collar and shaking it out. It's much too loose but he kind of likes it.

He then finds a pair of jeans. They're a little baggy as well but he doesn't really care. He slips them higher over his hips so they don't constantly slip and wanders back over to Auston.

Auston has pulled a button-up over his tshirt, pairing it with a pair of black pants. He's grabbing the jacket of his suit, and Mitch scratches his belly, glancing down at himself.

He looks rumpled. He hopes they're not going anywhere too fancy.

"Where are we going?" Mitch finally asks, watching as Auston pulls on his London Fog jacket. He fists his hands in the loose material of his shirt, eyes wide.

Auston grabs his phone and keys from the coffee table. “Breakfast, baby,” he says, beckoned Mitch to follow. Mitch hastily pulls on his runners before following Auston out of the room to the elevators, arms wrapped around his waist. He’s suddenly self-conscious when he notices a wealthy-looking businesswoman in a suit eyeball him warily from down the hallway, holding her bag closer to herself.

“I look trashy, don’t I?” Mitch whispers to Auston, relieved when the elevator doors finally open and he can escape from the woman’s withering look. Auston frowns at him.

“Not at all,” he says, leaning in close enough that Mitch can feel his hot breath puff against his ear. “I love you in my clothes.”

“Uh -- great,” Mitch mumbles, tongue suddenly heavy in his mouth. He allows Auston to wrap an arm around his shoulders, leading him from the elevators to the restaurant attached to the hotel.

There’s a patio but it’s completely snowed over. You can still watch folks stroll down the white streets through the glass though, so Mitch settles into a big chair beside Auston at their table, letting their server stuff him with sparkling fresh orange and cranberry juices and hot buttery bread baskets and Québec cheeses.

“I was thinking,” Auston muses. He's been nursing his coffee for the past few minutes with a studious look on his face.

“Mrmph?” Mitch says around a mouthful of french toast. It’s not typical french toast, he’d found out quickly -- it’s made of the smallest, fattest slices of brioche, covered in a salted caramel glaze and pure maple syrup. He’s not sure his brain is functioning properly at the moment. It’s sensory overload in the best possible ways.

Auston kindly ignores him. “I was thinking that we should go to Yorkdale.”

Mitch vaguely recalls Auston originally wanting to meet him at Yorkdale today. Faintly. It feels like decades ago compared to now, warm and full and wrapped in classical music playing out of hidden speakers. “Whatever you want,” he offers a few minutes later, after he’s chewed and swallowed.

“We could do some shopping,” Auston says quietly, eyeballing Mitch intensely. Mitch steals a spoonful of Auston’s spinach and havarti eggs, blinking at him.

He’s not sure why Auston wants to go to Yorkdale so badly. The man’s closet seems pretty well-stocked, and he’s sure American malls must have the same stores as Yorkdale.

But his job isn’t to question. His job is to sit there and smile and nod at Auston’s suggestion. 

So he licks the oil off his spoon and grins at Auston. “Sure, bud.”

Auston drives like a mad man to Yorkdale, turning any corner he sees to dodge traffic. Mitch lets him, because he doesn’t have the heart to let him know he can never escape the traffic. Auston seems to catch on quickly anyway, grumbling and hitting the steering wheel once they’ve been waiting at an intersection for twenty minutes.

The parking lots are packed but they still find a spot, albeit far from the entrances. Auston grabs his arm before he can climb out of the SUV, his eyebrows furrowed. “Where’s your jacket?”

Mitch looks to him before glancing down at his own chest, biting his lip. He’s still only got Auston’s dress shirt on. He’s not sure how he forgot his jacket; he was maybe too distracted by the warmth of the hotel. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I’ll sprint.”

“There’s _ snow _ falling from the sky,” Auston stresses in a very American way. Mitch cackles.

“Yeah, and I used to wear gym shorts when I shoveled my driveway,” Mitch tells him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Auston’s frown deepens. “Yeah, no,” he says. His hand is off Mitch’s arm, and Mitch briefly misses the touch before he notices Auston shucking off his London Fog. “Wear this.”

“Hey,” Mitch says, batting the material away when Auston forces it into his arms, “no, what about you?”

“I’m wearing a jacket,” he says. It’s only the jacket of his suit. Mitch goes to argue but Auston’s already sliding out of the driver’s seat, slamming the door and making his way around the car to Mitch’s side. Mitch stares at him dumbly as he opens the door, reaching in and helping Mitch into the jacket.

“There we go,” he says, sounding self-satisfied. Mitch opens his mouth again but his words are cut off short as Auston lifts him out of the car easily. “Let’s go.”

He’s herding Mitch to the mall with an arm wound tight around him again, and Mitch thinks he could get used to this. He likes Auston leading him, especially when he’s pressed so close, warmth seeping from him.

The mall is as busy as the parking lot would indicate, and Auston glances around before looking down at Mitch, who’s busy fingering the stitching of the jacket’s sleeve. “What brands do you wear?”

“Hm?” Mitch asks distractedly, eyeballing the large display of fudge chocolates at the Godiva shop storefront. It takes a few seconds for Auston’s question to sink in, and once it does, his eyes widen.

They’re shopping for _ him _.

“I --” he says hastily, but Auston’s already pulling him through a throng of people towards Harry Rosen. Harry fucking _ Rosen _ . Mitch cannot afford to _ breathe _ in the general direction of that store. “Auston, Auston --”

“This looks good,” Auston says, ignoring him. The inside of the store is gleaming black and white marble. An employee dressed as nicely as Auston glances at them from the Tom Ford section. “We’ll start with pants. You like jeans?”

“Uuuuhhhhh,” Mitch says. Auston waves down the employee, who clasps his hands together and grins good-naturedly as he strides over.

“How can I assist you, gentlemen?” he asks. He looks genuinely nice. Mitch relaxes for a second, before he notices Auston stare down a Cardinal of Canada jacket on a mannequin. The plaque in front of it reads _ $1595.00 CAD _. “Would you like to try it on, sir?”

“He would,” Auston says, nodding in Mitch’s direction. Mitch goggles at him. He most certainly would not.

It’s too late; the employee’s gone, bringing out a fresh jacket still wrapped in paper. He unfolds it gingerly, like the material can’t be crushed, and then opens it up expectantly.

Mitch realizes he’s supposed to step forward and slip inside of it. “Oh, no, I can’t --” he says, face going beet-red as Auston sighs and takes the jacket from the employee’s hands. He pulls Mitch out of his London Fog and then rests the jacket over his shoulders, stepping back and observing him. The employee strokes his chin, cocking his head, as if he too is considering how Mitch looks.

Mitch, on his part, feels like he’s some sort of exotic peacock at the zoo, everyone leering around him and waiting for him to spread his feathers. He stands there stiffly, fearful of moving. He’s scared the jacket might crumple to the floor.

“It looks good,” Auston says finally, “but it’s not working with the clothes he has on.”

“Exactly what I was thinking,” the employee says. “Not to worry. We can fix that, if you’d just follow me.”

They leave Harry Rosen with five bags and a receipt that tapers off into an amount of truly absurd numbers. 

The employee had put Mitch in a pair of Kiton cotton-stretch pants, and they were nice, super comfortable and casual. Auston even said they made his ass look great, and Mitch was satisfied. He guessed they were probably $50, no more than $100 at the very most.

They were _ $995_.

And Auston had refused to put them back. Mitch couldn’t wrap his mind around a pair of _ cotton pants _ for more than _ $1000 _ with tax, but then Auston decided to throw in two more pairs in different colours -- navy and beige. Beige. As if Mitch would consciously wear _ beige_.

He’s wearing the beige ones now though, along with Auston’s London Fog. Auston asked him if he wanted to wear his new jacket but he finds he likes Auston’s; it smells like his cologne. He’d whispered this in Auston’s ear and Auston had just smirked while the employee casually minded his own business.

“Auston,” he says now, clearing his throat. Auston glances at him before his eyes focus on whatever is behind Mitch’s head, and Mitch thinks oh no.

“_Shoes_,” Auston says empathetically, and his tone of voice sounds like he won’t take no for an answer.

“Shoes,” Mitch echoes, and lets himself be steered into another store.

It’s around the fifth pair of special edition Air Force 1’s that Auston asks the employee to grab for them when Mitch says, “um. Auston.”

“Yeah, baby,” Auston says. He’s distracted; Mitch is sitting sidelong on the bench, and he’s got a foot in Auston’s lap, and Auston is fixing the laces of the sneakers Mitch is trying on. He has a big hand wrapped around Mitch’s ankle and is pulling on the laces until they snag, before yanking them back until they settle flat and he deems them satisfying.

Mitch rolls his foot, staring at the sneaker. It’s a nice style. Maybe a little too bright for his taste, but, y’know. Gotta step out of your comfort zone once in a while.

“Thank you,” he says finally, and Auston looks up at him, almost seeming surprised.

“Don’t say that,” he says, and reaches out to cup Mitch’s cheek. “You deserve these things.”

“Thank you,” he repeats, cringing. “Right. Sorry.”

Auston pinches his cheek gently, giving him one last small smile before he turns his attention back to the employee that’s carrying four different boxes yet looking completely nonchalant. Mitch knows if it were him he’d have spilled them all open everywhere already.

“I’ll take them all,” Auston says before she can open them up and start threading the laces. “Thank you.”

“Cool,” she says, eyes flickering to Mitch. Mitch tries to smile innocently, convey gratitude. She just raises an eyebrow. “Everything will be up at the counter, yeah?”

“Thank you,” Auston tells her again. He waits until she’s gone over to the cash desk before turning to Mitch, patting his ankle. “What else do you need?”

“I’m good, I swear,” Mitch tells him. “I -- this is all, like, way more than enough.”

“So sweaters then?” Auston asks.

Mitch rolls his eyes.

If he’s getting sweaters, he’d prefer Roots sweaters over whatever thin cashmere stuff Auston has in mind. It helps that Roots is way too expensive for him to afford. He’s always wanted there stuff though, and he happily tosses whatever he likes at Auston, who flails to catch it all in time -- four Kangy hoodies, three zip-ups, and an infinite amount of sweats.

Mitch thinks Auston is all shopped out as he pays for it all the register, Mitch clinging to his side and trying to meet the eyes of the red-faced cashier, but then Auston turns to him and asks, “socks? Hats?”

“I’m hungry,” Mitch tells him. Auston is about to say something, so Mitch adds, “the mall is too busy and it’s too loud. It’s giving me a headache. Let’s go.”

Auston looks dubious. Mitch squeezes his shoulder. “We go eat, and we can come back if you feel up for it,” he tells him, even though he has zero intention of letting Auston come back to Yorkdale. He flutters his lashes for good effect. “Please?”

That breaks him. “Okay,” he says, “let’s go.”

It’s difficult to herd Auston out of the mall -- he keeps getting distracted by stores the way crows get distracted by shiny things. Mitch has to keep nudging through gaggles of university students and tourists rudely until they finally stumble back out into the snow, clutching their shoppings bags close.

They throw all the bags in the trunk of the SUV before climbing in quickly. Mitch pulls the jacket tight around himself as Auston turns the car on, waiting for it to warm up.

“Where did you want to eat, baby?” he asks. Mitch wonders if the _ baby _ stuff is here to stay, and finds that he hopes it is.

“Hmm,” Mitch says, as if he needs to ponder.

He doesn’t. He directs Auston to JOEY at the Eaton Centre. It’s a place fancy enough for American Influencers to take photos for their Instagrams, but also laid-back enough for Mitch and Willy to end up at drunkenly after a small local concert at the Opera House on Queen Street East one night.

Auston seems pretty satisfied with it too. He orders a spicy Korean bowl and Mitch just goes for the cheeseburger with applewood smoked bacon and a poutine.

“This is a nice place,” Auston says, glancing around.

Mitch nods, slurping his Fruitopia.

“And it’s connected to the Eaton Centre,” Auston adds. “We can go check out some shops afterwards.”

Mitch continues slurping his Fruitopia. He doesn’t know how to let Auston know that browsing through the Eaton Centre won’t be happening tonight; he’s going to suck Auston’s soul straight out of his dick after dinner.

“So,” he says, waving the waiter down when he decides he needs a refill, “are you from Phoenix?”

“No,” Auston says. They have a platter of lemon aioli jumbo shrimps as an appetizer, and Mitch has plowed through three of them so far. Auston has one on his plate and has been poking at it languidly for the past ten minutes, instead opting to watch Mitch suck the oil off his fingertips. “I’m from Scottsdale.”

“Never heard of it, sorry.”

“I’m guessing the only city you know of in Arizona is Phoenix?”

“I’m guessing the only city you know of in Canada is Toronto,” Mitch says, and swipes another shrimp.

Auston eyes him. “No,” he says. “I know Markham too.”

Mitch chokes a little. The waiter comes by with his new glass of Fruitopia.

“Oh,” Mitch says after a pregnant pause, patting his throat and swallowing more liquid. “Um. Okay.”

“And I know Vancouver,” Auston continues, as if he didn’t just land the verbal equivalent of a French kiss on Mitch, “Montréal...Calgary…”

He trails off. Mitch grins over the lip of his glass.

“Name one more,” he says, waggling an eyebrow. “You were struggling with Calgary. Name one more.”

“Fuck,” Auston says. His face breaks out into a gorgeous, helpless smile. He rubs his temple. “Don’t do this to me.”

“One more!” Mitch says. He flattens his fingers on the tabletop and uses the leverage to lean in close to Auston, eyes shining. “One more, and I’ll…”

Auston looks interested now. “You’ll what?”

“I’ll…” He glances around them. Everyone’s engaged in conversation. No one notices the college student leaning incredibly close to the rich older guy dressed to the nines. “You know.”

“I don’t, actually,” Auston says. He’s smirking now and Mitch would get huffy if he weren’t so into it. “But I’ll try anyway.”

He leans back in his chair, fingers tapping the armrest as his face screws up in concentration. Mitch bites the rim of his glass.

Auston closes his eyes, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Christ.”

Mitch goggles at him. “Bro, you’re kidding --”

“Oh!” Auston interrupts. “Ottawa.”

Mitch throws his hands up in the air. “Thank you!”

“Sorry! It’s not like we were ever taught this stuff in school.”

“_ We _ weren’t taught about the States, but I still know Chicago and Washington and Dallas and Nashville and Ohio --”

“Ohio’s a _ state _ \--”

“Same difference --”

Auston snorts. Mitch rolls his eyes. “Do you mean Columbus?”

“No?”

“It’s the capital of Ohio.”

“I’ve never heard of it.”

“And you’re giving me shit?” Auston asks, raising an eyebrow.

“There’s a difference, dude. I know a lot of American cities. You couldn’t remember our capital.”

“Toronto?”

“This conversation’s over,” Mitch says, raking a hand through his hair. Auston gives him a shit-eating grin. “Please tell me you didn’t think the capital was _ Toronto _\--”

“I can’t,” Auston says. “I can’t lie to you.”

“I wish you could.”

Auston shakes his head. He’s still smiling. “This is good though,” he says, “tell me more about yourself. Other than you thought that Ohio was a city.”

“What do you want to know?” Mitch can’t really think of anything about himself interesting enough to keep hold the attention of a rich businessman. He eats Mister Noodles every night and cries over his homework often. Thinking Ohio was a city maybe was the most interesting facet of himself.

“Can I ask what you’re studying?”

“Oh,” Mitch says. There’s no time to wonder if he should lie before the truth slips out. “BA for sports media.”

“Sports media?”

Mitch flushes. He’s suddenly embarrassed. He should’ve just opted for the easy answer and said psych or business or something. “Yeah, uh, Ryerson had the first sports media course in North America, and I thought it’d be cool because of, like, legit internships and _ sports _ and shit. It sucks major ass though. And I’m doing French language courses -- or, like, attempting to? It’s not going well -- plus research and writing…”

He frowns. Auston’s watching him carefully now, face closed off. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“Say it.”

“You do all of that on top of -- this?”

_ This _. Mitch gives him a half-smile. “I have a part-time job too, actually.”

“Jesus.”

“It’s nothing. Most of the kids I hang out with grind mad hard.”

“I know,” Auston says. “Students work hard. But still. This...doesn't it make it all harder?”

Mitch cocks his head. “Not really,” he says after a moment. “It makes it easier, I think. There’s literally no way I could afford to live in Toronto if I didn’t do this. OSAP’s fucked and I don’t want _ more _ loans on top of my student loans. I mean, like, it’s not big tuition anyway, but why make it worse? You know?”

“Right,” Auston says dubiously. “They treat you okay?”

“Who?” Mitch asks, thinking that he’s asking about other students, or maybe his profs, before it dawns on him. “Oh.”

“Yeah.”

“Um, usually,” Mitch says. No one ever asks him these sorts of things, usually worried he’d get angry. Not even Will, who most often just makes sure he’s all good. “Like, nothing bad has ever happened. It’s pretty boring. Dinner, vanilla sex.” It actually is mostly vanilla sex. Most of them want a warm boy clinging to them and whining as they rut between his legs frantically. Sometimes it gets too intense, too painful, but that’s an outlier. Sometimes they just sit back with a bottle of wine and watch him play with himself, knees spread wide apart, fingers buried inside of himself, blindfolded, crying out as he strokes his cock to a messy orgasm. “Sometimes we don’t even fuck, they just wanna talk.”

He doesn’t mention that they usually want to_ just talk _ while he’s on their laps, their hands roaming all over him.

“Oh,” Auston says. There’s a weird and uncomfortable look on his face. Mitch rolls his eyes, scooching his chair over so they’re side-to-side instead of across each other.

“Relax, bro,” he says, leering at Auston. “I don’t secretly hate you or whatever.”

“I didn’t think you hated me,” Auston says unconvincingly.

“Yeah you did. You think I secretly hate this and hate you. I mean, this isn’t the best job on the planet, but I bet your job isn’t either.”

Auston laughs. “Definitely not.”

“What do you even do?” Mitch asks, grateful for a segue into a different topic.

“Finance,” he says, “boring stuff. I work for an LA based company, and they’ve been branching out overseas. Thought Canada was a safe first option. There was talk of looking into an office on Yonge and Dundas.”

“Yonge and --? That is the worst idea _ ever _.”

“Yeah,” Auston huffs, “we know that _ now_,” and Mitch giggles. He can’t help it.

“At least look at the financial district.”

“We’re looking now that the previous plans folded.”

“You guys are so clueless.” Mitch shakes his head, pinching the lemon wedge stuck onto the rim of his glass. “Yonge and Dundas.”

“It’s popular!”

“That’s, like, _ why _ it’s the worst idea ever. It’s a cesspit.”

“We should get you on the development team as our Toronto specialist.”

Mitch waggles an eyebrow. "I'll consider it. How well do y’all pay?”

Auston just smiles.

Afterwards, when they're crossing the busy sidewalks to the parking lot a bit out of way across Eaton, Auston crowds Mitch against the passenger door of the SUV and kisses him. The sky is already winter-dark and the air is freezing cold; Auston is so warm against Mitch, big and strong and holding him in place.

"Fuck," Mitch breathes when he pulls back, knocking their foreheads together. Auston brings a hand round to sweep Mitch's fringe from his forehead, kissing the tip of his nose.

“You’re so beautiful,” he says, and Mitch thrills inside.

“Auston --”

"I'd really love to take you back to the hotel now," he murmurs, and Mitch clutches the sleeves of his suit. "If you'd let me."

"Fuck yeah," Mitch says, searching for another kiss. No one notices them wedged in between hundreds of cars, but he'd still like privacy. He suddenly wants nothing more than to be warm and naked in Auston's arms under heavy comforters. "Take me home."

Auston complies.

\---

Auston presses him up against the mirror as soon as the doors to the elevator slide shut, and Mitch slides his hands underneath the jacket of Auston's suit, tipping his head up and letting Auston catch his mouth.

It's a dirty, nasty kiss, Auston's tongue pushing past Mitch's teeth like he wishes his mouth were elsewhere Mitch's body. He has an arm wrapped around Mitch's waist, one big hand cupping Mitch's cheek, and he's using both the leverage and his height to manhandle Mitch however he wants him: up against the mirror, cradled close to his chest, crushed between the wall and Auston's body and completely unable to escape.

He's so hard it hurts, and at a certain point Auston tips his neck up so high he's basically useless in the kiss, lips parted and panting, Auston's tongue fucking into his slick mouth, his hands pawing at Auston's chest.

When he pulls back, he knocks their foreheads together, kissing the skin above Mitch's eyebrow, then the curve of his nose, then each corner of his mouth. "You taste so good," he breathes, and Mitch can't even bring himself to say anything dumb like he usually would, to say _ I'm sure I just taste like dinner _; can only just embarrassingly whine, "daddy --"

Auston's fingers, curled around his waist, flex and tighten at the word. His eyes are impossibly dark. "I want to taste you everywhere," he breathes, and his hand dips down to squeeze Mitch's ass through the jacket. "Here," he says, squeezes again, "can I touch you here?"

"Yes --"

"Can I taste you here too?" he asks, voice so low, and Mitch literally doesn't know what to do. "Can I put my tongue here? Fingers?"

"_ Yes _ \--"

"My cock?" he continues, voice dipping. "Will it even fit?"

Mitch does not _ care _ if it wouldn't fit, if his body could physically not take it, whatever the fuck. He'll work himself onto Auston's cock and he won't stop until he's been split in half, shaking and wet all over, a mass of raw nerves.

"Yes," he repeats, voice thin. He's looped his arms around Auston's neck, is using the leverage just to rock against him, trying to get another kiss. "Anything, anything --"

"Anything, huh," Auston says, and just -- holds Mitch so close, gentle but still tight, like he wants to keep him safe but also won't ever let him go. "Put you down on your knees,” he continues, and the thumb he has rubbing over Mitch’s cheek slides just between his lips. Mitch bites down gently, letting his tongue rub along the pad of Auston’s thumb, staring up at him with bright eyes. “Feed this pretty mouth.”

Mitch nods, closing his eyes and leaning impossibly closer, hoping for a kiss. He receives one; Auston keeps his mouth open with his thumb, stretching his lips at the corner, and kisses him filthy, holding him in place.

Mitch is rutting his hips against Auston’s thigh by the time the elevator jolts to a stop, and he groans, disappointed, because he knows Auston will let him go now. All the warmth and closeness they’ve gathered will be gone.

But that’s not what happens. The doors slide open and Auston hitches Mitch up. Mitch yelps, and his arms tighten around Auston’s neck, legs wrapping around his waist, the heel of his runners digging into his lower back.

He buries his face into the crook of Auston’s neck, jostled with every step he takes. His whole body feels as if it’s alight; it knows what’s coming, and that feeling becomes dizzier when Auston slides his key card into the lock, and then Mitch is being laid out across the bed -- not thrown, but gently placed down, and he tries to keep Auston down with him by grabbing him by the lapels of his suit.

And then his axis is altered -- he’s flipped onto his front, and he only has a second to rip his face from the sheets and suck in a surprised breath before Auston’s grabbing his hips, drawing them up but pulling him lower down to the edge, until Mitch is bent over the foot of bed.

Auston folds the jacket up until it pools around the dip of his back, and Mitch makes a silent, shocked noise as his jeans and briefs are tugged down. His ass is in the air, naked, visible, bare, and he digs his fingers into the sheets, blinking at the window. It’s the same one as last time, and the CN Tower is watching him.

“So fucking beautiful,” Auston is saying. He’s running his hand over Mitch’s ass, just over the round of his cheeks, smoothing his calloused palm over them and leaving goosebumps all over in his wake. Then he -- pinches. He pinches each cheek, pulling the skin and stretching before letting go. Mitch’s whole lower body tightens.

“Come on,” he breathes. He’s trembling from the cool air and he can’t help it; the room is warm but they spent so much time outdoors he still feels cold on the inside. He thinks, heatedly, that he needs Auston’s cock inside of him to warm his core. He can feel his body clench at the thought.

Auston’s thumb then runs between his crack, nudging him open and a full-body shiver runs through him as his hole is exposed to the air. Auston rubs over him, and Mitch’s hole flexes, not like it’s trying to keep him out but instead draw him in. Mitch’s body betrays him constantly.

Mitch pushes his hips into the touch anyway, becoming increasingly impatient, and that’s when Auston’s uses his free hand to rest down firmly on the small of Mitch’s back, stilling him. His thumb is gone and Mitch mourns it for a moment before he’s being jostled forward as Auston’s hand connects with his ass, smacking him so hard the sting is immediately apparent.

“Oh,” he says, a little choked off. Auston presses him down further with the hand on his back, until he’s trapped, chest flat to the sinking mattress and ass presented high in the air, and smacks him again. Mitch flushes; he can feel his thighs jiggle with it, and it’s a little embarrassing, but then Auston reaches down and pinches the delicate skin right between his thighs, sighing something like kindness, and Mitch wants _ more _.

His face burns. “Daddy,” he tries, and Auston smacks his ass again, hand connecting and pushing _ up _ so his behind stings particularly hard. They’re deep, firm hits, and then he alternates to raining down a stream of short, hard ones that keep shoving Mitch up the bed, his cock so heavy between his legs it can’t curve towards his belly, is hanging low near his thigh. Auston has a thin ring on one of his fingers too, and the exact spot where it connects with Mitch’s skin throbs harder than everywhere else which is pulsating anyway, and it hurts so much it’s really just pleasure. He still brings a hand down when Auston lets his waist go, pulls his cheeks apart again and hits him where he’s open.

“Oh, no,” Auston says, almost reverently. He grabs Mitch’s wrist, stilling him, and Mitch listens to his harsh breathing and the rustling noises behind him, turning his cheek into the sheets and watching Auston undo his tie. Auston leans over him, blanketing him, and grabs his other hand, bringing it round to the small of his back, and Mitch’s stomach swoops, cock throbbing, when Auston ties his wrists together.

When Auston lets him go and steps back, Mitch rolls his shoulders, pulls a little, checking the tightness, and realizes that -- that it’s _ proper _ tight, not just decoration or for a thrilling show. His breathing stutters, and he blinks up at Auston, who’s watching him carefully as he strips out of his jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his shirt, then reaching down to pet through Mitch’s hair, rub over his warm cheek.

“So fucking beautiful,” he repeats, and Mitch’s blood just runs hotter. “What do you want, baby?”

Mitch doesn’t fucking know. He wants to be spanked again and again. He wants to be stretched out and fingered until he’s loose enough for Auston to sink into him. He wants Auston to come inside of him, wants it to leak down his thighs, wants Auston to hold him by his hair and slide his cock back into his mouth and have Mitch gag and drool and choke on it.

He settles for, “just _ touch _ me,” and it comes out a little more pathetically than he’d have liked.

Auston complies, and he manhandles Mitch onto the bed on his back. His head hits the pillows with a sigh, and Auston slides between his legs, hitching them up and tugging his pants off the rest of the way, tossing them to the floor. 

Mitch’s lower half is completely bare now, and Auston’s just _ looking _ . He tries to press his thighs together in a weak attempt to hide himself, because he knows his hole is clenching over and over around nothing, and it’s embarrassing, but Auston holds him open with a _ tsk _.

“Don’t hide from me, baby,” he says, low, “I won’t let you, I want to see you, I want to see it all,” and Mitch is still embarrassed but he lets Auston pry his thighs apart, squeezing the flesh, his cock and hole exposed to the cold and Auston’s hungry gaze. If his hands weren’t tied together by the wrists, pressed between his back and the mattress, he’d probably reach up and grab Auston by his neck and pull his head down between his thighs, where he wants it.

“Daddy,” he says softly, feeling his flush deepen, his skin burn hotter. Auston looks up at his face, giving him these fond eyes, and he dips down and kisses Mitch deep just like he had in the elevator, tongue in Mitch’s mouth, one hand lifting Mitch’s leg up, sliding low and groping his ass roughly.

Mitch’s breathing hitches and he gasps into Auston’s mouth. Auston kneads the smartened flesh of his ass, his fingers moving to snub against Mitch’s hole.

“God, daddy, please --” he tries, and Auston pulls back, kisses the corner of his mouth, and shuffles off the bed, disappearing into a dark corner of the room. There are rustling noises, and Mitch can make out his shadow bent over, searching his suitcase.

Mitch shifts against the bed, licking his lips impatiently, and he sighs when Auston reappears with lube, swiftly climbing back atop him. He looks so good, fully-clothed in his button-down shirt and dress pants, and Mitch thinks fleetingly about the picture they make. Opposites.

He whines and Auston kisses him. He’s between Mitch’s legs and the rough flies of his trousers rub against Mitch’s belly. It sends a little thrill through him, and his hips twitch up, his lips part in surprise. Auston sucks on his tongue, licks at the corners of his mouth until Mitch is following his lips wherever they drag, drooling and shaking.

“Daddy,” he pants, watching Auston lean back on his haunches. He opens the lube and then squeezes it out over Mitch’s balls. It drips thick and cold down over his taint, his hole, and he flinches like he’s been hit. “_ Fuck _ \--”

“So wet,” Auston murmurs, squeezing out more before he presses two fingertips against Mitch’s hole. Mitch twitches again, rolling his hips down into Auston’s touch wantonly. “Could you take it?”

“I --” Mitch says, eyes squeezing shut when Auston’s fingers catch on his hole. He bets they could sink right in; he hasn’t had sex in a while but that doesn’t mean he hasn’t touched himself throughout the drought. “Yes, yes --”

Auston keeps teasing over him and his own fingers flex behind his back. If he could, he would’ve brought his hands down and fucked himself open just to entice Auston to move quicker. It always works with other men; they cave as soon as he gets himself on three fingers, hips shifting restlessly, ass flexing.

“I think you can too,” Auston says lightly. He feeds Mitch one, two, fingers, and Mitch gasps silently, body going taut. He tightens up and Auston groans, gripping the fleshiest part of Mitch’s hip and pulling his ass onto his lap until Mitch’s legs are spread around his waist, head smushed into the pillows but his shoulders just barely pressed against the mattress.

“Look at you, taking it so easily,” Auston breathes. His voice is rough, his eyes trained intently between the sprawl of Mitch’s legs. Mitch can barely see anything, eyes wet and fringe all spread over his eyes, but he can feel Auston’s fingers fucking him open, can feel Auston manhandle his hips down onto them with the power of only one hand. His toes curl against the comforters and a shudder runs through him as Auston’s fingers reach so deep it feels like he’s touching some unknown part buried far inside of the tight clutch of Mitch’s body, his knuckles grinding into his sensitive rim. His cock jerks against his quivering belly and his back arches, pushing his ass down against the bulge in Auston’s pants, eyes trained on the clean dark ceiling.

“Daddy,” he breathes. He plants his feet flat on the mattress behind Auston and starts rocking onto his hand, trying to get Auston deep enough to reach that part inside of him. He thinks he could probably take Auston’s cock at the point, wonders if the fat head would rub against it too the same time it could rub over his prostate. “I’m gonna come, daddy, please --”

“Yeah,” Auston says. He lets go of Mitch’s hip and grips his cock. His palms are sticky from lube and the drag feels incredible; Mitch thrusts up into his hold without thinking, and at that point all he can do is helplessly roll his hips onto Auston’s fingers or hump up into his fist. His breathing feels shallow and he can feel his orgasm build from simmering low in his belly to stretching over through his knees, his thighs, his shoulders. “Come on baby, come all over yourself, make yourself dirty --”

It feels as if Auston is smoothing out his insides with his fingers. Mitch tightens around them, and it’s after a tight strip over his dick and a thumb over the leaking head does he come, knees locking and shoulders caving. He turns his face into the cool pillow, mouthing at the damp material and lets it wash over him, rocking his hips until he’s too sensitive.

It’s a warm and almost sleepy orgasm that sates him on the outside but his cock is still half-hard and his body still wants something thick spearing him open, making him come from the inside out. He wriggles in Auston’s lap, turning his face back out into the open, and Auston makes a wounded noise as their eyes meet, Mitch blinking bleary tears away.

“Baby,” he says, voice tender, and easily maneuvers Mitch upright in his lap. He licks at Mitch’s wet cheeks, one arm tight around Mitch’s waist, as he undoes the flies of his pants, fisting over his cock. It’s big and red and curved beautifully. Mitch knows he’s gagging for it at this point. It’s not his fault; he’s thought about it every day since that first date. “You’re gonna feel so good on my dick, aren’t you?”

Mitch can imagine -- his body is still tightening up randomly through the aftershocks and he feels embarrassingly wet on the inside. He writhes in Auston’s lap, waiting impatiently for him to slick his cock up, and he has to press close to Auston to kneel over him properly and sink down onto it.

“Oh fuck,” Auston groans, hands holding mitch by the waist. Mitch buries his face into Auston’s neck, mouthing at the material of his shirt, the muscles in his thighs quivering. “Slow down baby, you’re gonna hurt yourself, you’re gonna tear --”

Mitch’s thighs give out and his weight drops down; he sinks onto Auston’s cock abruptly, his body forcing itself open, back arching and mouth going slack. He nearly screams and Auston shivers underneath him, clutching him close, hands scrabbling all over him.

“Mitch, baby, fuck --” he babbles. Mitch shudders in his lap. “Holy shit, are you _ okay _ \--?”

“Yeah,” Mitch pants, “yes, fuck, I’m good, I’m good, daddy, please --”

Auston rolls his hips up and Mitch nearly slides off his lap. Auston has to keep one arm wound tight around him because Mitch can’t helplessly cling onto him by his shoulders, and he looks so fucking _ good _, white teeth sunk into his bottom lip in concentration as he shamelessly ruts inside of Mitch, burning him inside out. Mitch cries out when he starts bouncing him on his lap, picking him up easily with sheer strength and dropping him right back onto his cock in a brutally fast rhythm, never allowing Mitch to go more than a second without his cock filling him up and stretching him open wide.

“Can you?” Auston pants against his ear, voice low and shot to hell. Mitch whines.

“Huh --?”

“Come on my cock,” he says tightly. He pulls out of Mitch and rolls him over onto the bed face-down, hitching his hips right back up as Mitch gnashes his teeth into the pillow. He rucks the jacket up, bunching it over Mitch’s back, and slides back inside of Mitch in a swift solid motion, grasping him by the waist and fucking him into the mattress.

Mitch can’t do anything but drool and clench his thighs tight around the building heat cramping up in his lower belly. He pulls at the bind around his wrists and, upon realizing they’re still tight and won’t be letting up anytime soon, gives up and just -- surrenders.

He comes on Auston’s cock, the head of his sensitive rubbing and snagging against the soft sheets until he twitches and shoots off all over them, dripping all over his belly and nipples and chest. He goes tight like a vice around Auston, shaking uncontrollably, body wracking over, and Auston groans, his hips stuttering as he comes deep inside Mitch, holding him tight in place and burying himself inside deep as he fills him up with ropes of come.

Mitch shivers at the feeling of Auston coming inside him. His come is warm and thick, and he rolls his hips back onto Auston’s softening cock, making him moan softly.

“Holy fuck,” he breathes, his weight dropping against Mitch and burying him into the mattress. Mitch wriggles underneath him, turning his face to Auston’s, seeking a kiss.

Auston gives him one; a slow and tired kiss that peters out into just breathing the same air after a quick moment.

“We should clean up,” he slurs.

Mitch can’t even form words, his tongue is so heavy in his mouth. He blinks at Auston wetly.

“Okay,” Auston concedes, “maybe in a moment.”

\---

That moment ends up being almost an hour later. All Auston can do in the immediate aftermath is slip out of Mitch’s body and cuddle him close, their clothes still on, come drying tacky on their skin.

Later they get a bath running and Mitch sinks into the warm water, small bubbles forming on the surface from the complementary rose-scented oils the hotel gives out, resting against Auston’s chest. Auston sweeps a hand down Mitch’s side, kissing his neck.

“You’re stunning,” Auston murmurs there.

“Right back at ya, bud,” Mitch says tiredly. He reaches a hand out behind himself blindly, tangling his fingers into the damp mess of Auston’s hair and angling his face for a sloppy kiss.

It’s only then, pulling back and settling against Auston again does Mitch realize he was about to mumble _ I love you. _

_ Shit _ , he thinks, staring at up at the ceiling as Auston winds his arms around him. _ Shit. _

  
  
  


\---

\---

\---

Auston lands in Toronto for the third time about a month later for a fundraiser-slash-gala-slash-make-nice-with-potential-investors thing. He invites Mitch the first night at his hotel while they’re naked and cuddled together in bed, and Mitch tells him he’s only going for the free food.

Auston just smiles.

The gala is in Oakville, held at Chester Hall on Lakeshore. All the glittering mansions down Lakeshore road twinkle with gold light and snow, and the winding driveway to Chester Hall is swarmed with luxury cars when they arrive.

Mitch sits close to Auston in the back of the car -- Auston’s company had sent a driver to pick them up, and Mitch feels increasingly out of place as they step outside onto the tarmac, digging his nails into the sleeve of Auston’s overcoat and letting him lead them into the hall.

“Holy shit,” he mumbles under his breath. 

“Apparently this is the most expensive home in Canada,” Auston says, glancing around.

“Yeah,” Mitch huffs. “I know.” Growing up in the GTA included much gossiping about all the rich neighbourhoods and schools -- Lakeshore, Richmond, the likes. The minute a student from Appleby College would post a ridiculous selfie in front of a G-Wagon, Mitch’s friends would yell about it all through homeroom, absolutely tearing into it.

“_ And _ it’s on sale,” Auston continues.

“Go buy it,” Mitch says. “Do something useful.”

“Brat,” Auston says lightly, squeezing Mitch’s waist. Mitch ducks close to him in front of a wealthy-looking couple who easily ignore them, giving Auston a look underneath his lashes.

“You like it when I’m a brat,” he says, “_ daddy _.”

“I do,” Auston says, giving him a brilliant smile. His voice drops when he adds, “that doesn’t mean I won’t bend you over my lap and spank you until your ass is red.”

“Ooh, I’m _ so _ scared.” Mitch slips out of Auston’s hold, stalking down a server and grabbing a flute of champagne from their tray, swallowing it down. There’s a thrill in the pit of his belly at Auston’s words; he wants to go back to Toronto, to the hotel, right now.

He hears Auston’s shoes against the floor before he sees him; Auston catches him again, pressing all along his back, strong arm finding its way back around Mitch’s waist. Mitch leans back into him, polishing off the rest of his champagne.

“Let’s go back to the hotel,” he whispers. Auston smiles against his neck.

“I wish we could, but we have to make conversation, baby.”

Making conversation with rich people doesn’t come as easy as his past sugaring experience would have one think -- he mostly lurks behind Auston, popping various hors-d'œuvres into his mouth as Auston tosses his head back and laughs good-naturedly with ugly wealthy folks.

Mitch is two plates deep into the deviled eggs spiced with Iraqi sumac when it’s time for dinner. The dinner hall is hidden by large French doors that open onto around fifty or so decorated tables, and Mitch steals three more eggs before wandering behind Auston to find their seats.

They’re at a table with a billionaire family from New Brunswick. Mitch isn’t sure which one, because there are a truly startling amount of billionaire families based in New fucking Brunswick out of all possible places.

“Are those the Hausers?” Mitch whispers to Auston, trying to read their name plaques. “The Jamiesons?”

“I don’t know who any of those people are,” Auston whispers back. Mitch gapes, scandalized. Are New Brunswick's billionaires not a table topic in the States?, he wonders.

Dinner goes well. Mitch just gets to plow through all the food placed in front of him as Auston painfully dregs through tedious small talk. Mitch inhales a tiny lava cake made with dark chocolate and raspberries as the gala’s sponsors give a few speeches that Auston has to pretend to be carefully listening to, clapping on cue while Mitch single-handedly tosses back a platter of fresh fruit.

“I’m so full,” Mitch tells him afterwards, rubbing his belly.

“Glad one of us is happy,” Auston tells him dryly. Mitch takes pity on him.

“I’ll suck you off in the car while we go back to Toronto,” he offers kindly, patting Auston’s shoulder. Auston tries to give him a withering glare but ends up just looking really into the idea.

“I want to keep you forever,” Auston sighs, reaching out and brushing Mitch’s fringe from his face. Mitch leans into the touch like a cat, blinking bright-eyed up at Auston.

“Said no one ever.”

“I just said it.”

“Should move here then,” Mitch says, waggling his eyebrows. “Get that Toronto deal done with your company, and you can keep me for all of eternity and find out how badly you’ll regret ever saying that.”

“I want to find out,” Auston says. He tips Mitch’s head up in his big warm hands, kissing him deeply. Mitch sinks forward into him, letting Auston press him up against the wall, scritching his nails down Auston’s back gently.

“I want you to find out,” Mitch breathes when he breaks away, nudging their noses together, almost going cross-eyed to meet Auston’s gaze.

“I think I will,” Auston says, voice kind, and dips back down to kiss Mitch’s breath away.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [You've Got My Devotion](https://archiveofourown.org/works/22071091) by [goddess_julie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/goddess_julie/pseuds/goddess_julie)


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